


Wolves in Fancy Coats

by icarus_chained



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Dirty Deeds, Family, Gen, Government, Hurt/Comfort, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Odd Friendships, Post-Dishonored (Video Game), Spies & Secret Agents, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-09 03:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20485763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: Scrambling in the aftermath of the Interregnum, trying to put and keep a child Empress on the throne, newly-appointed royal protector and spymaster Corvo Attano has a meeting with Slackjaw at Dunwall Tower. And then theEmpresshas a surprise meeting with Slackjaw at the Tower. Somewhat to her father's horror. And then reluctant gratitude.





	Wolves in Fancy Coats

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something completely different. Slackjaw, specifically. And a very tired Corvo, and a struggling Emily, and a gang boss that's surprisingly good for her. Well. At least short term.

“Y’know, yer lookin’ right grey these days. You were lookin’ better in the sewers.”

Corvo palmed his hands across his face, and did his best to glare his appreciation for that random tidbit. Slackjaw, dressed up like a popinjay to suit the confines of Dunwall Tower, in clothes he likely stole and looking just as fine and easy in them as he would in his own gear, just grinned at him. He leaned back against Corvo’s fireplace with casual swagger, a wolf knowingly and happily among the sheep, and wagged a cheerful finger in Corvo’s direction.

“Now, none of that,” he said. “Nothing wrong with a little friendly concern, hmm?”

Corvo glared at him some more. He wasn’t really in the mood for Slackjaw’s ‘concern’. He wasn’t really in the mood for anything, aside from possibly a little light murder of several very deserving individuals who were determined to make every attempt to make Dunwall liveable again as _difficult_ as humanly possible. Because salvaging the lives of the thousands taken ill or displaced by the plague, rebuilding something close to a functioning economy, and maintaining some facsimile of stable government, were all _clearly_ not the correct priorities for her newly-crowned imperial majesty’s reign.

Or, possibly, they simply weren’t the correct priorities when carried out by the lowborn, foreign probable-assassin that she’d named her Lord Protector and Lord Spymaster. Either way.

And Corvo wouldn’t mind, it was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before, if much less extremely during Jessamine’s reign, but Emily … wasn’t handling the insinuations well. Or the arguments. Or the lacklustre support for what she considered clear and obvious courses of action. And she was doing her best, she’d watched her mother often enough and had seen the consequences of failure starkly enough, but at the end of the day she was still only _ten_. She was still a ten-year-old girl who’d spent a year being traumatised and passed around as both victim and party to several _distinctly undiplomatic_ forms of conflict resolution.

She hadn’t thrown a public tantrum yet. She hadn’t ever been less than cold and polite and graceful. But she’d left more than one meeting with her so-called policy makers on the verge of tears, with the strong desire to kick several ‘advisors’ in the shins or possibly further north clearly visible on her face.

Not that Corvo would have necessarily _disapproved_, in several cases, but her position and her reign were unsteady enough at the minute. Dunwall had cycled through three governments in less than a year, one of them lasting less than two _weeks_, and the entire map of the city had been rearranged by the plague. Not to mention relations outside Dunwall. They really couldn’t afford to rob an irritating noble of his ability to father children in open court, however _extraordinarily tempting_ the prospect might be.

He really hated to think it, but life had been so much easier when he could just kidnap people to get them out of his way.

He probably _had_ looked healthier in the sewers. Poison and all. At least when he’d been poisoned, he’d had a chance to get some _sleep_.

Hence, Slackjaw.

The lack of sleep, he meant. Not the poison. Slackjaw was more a cleaver sort of man. And he hadn’t asked the gang boss here to kidnap anyone, either. Though, again, _extremely tempting_. All he needed was some information, an idea of how things were on the ground in the Distillery District, and in the last few months anything in that general vicinity made him think of Slackjaw first and foremost. But he was so damned chained to his desk right now that the chances of his seeing the sky within the next six months had been better in _bloody Coldridge_.

It was … good of Slackjaw to come to him. Despite having to dress up like an idiot. Despite having to walk into enemy fucking territory, or as near as made no difference. Despite … Despite the potential offense of being summoned like a lackey the second Corvo was back in power.

Corvo really hoped that wasn’t how Slackjaw had seen this. Although, if he _had_, Corvo probably would have had the bruises to show for it right now. Possibly the missing limbs.

Slackjaw had a very _direct_ approach to perceived disrespect, after all.

And he’d come. Stolen kit and all, he’d still come. Right into the heart of Dunwall Tower, with Coldridge just across the way. The man was doing him a good turn. Corvo probably owed him a bit better than glares and monosyllabic grunts, didn’t he?

And with Slackjaw, he knew just the thing.

“The drinks cabinet is in the shelves behind you,” he rasped, levering himself up from the desk and moving towards the fireplace. “A lot of it’s ‘gifts’, and there’s a decent chance most of it is poisoned, but you can help yourself, if you’d like.”

Slackjaw’s grin broadened. “Much obliged,” he said, rubbing thick fingers together before turning to flip the tiny latch with surprising delicacy and open the latticework doors to peruse the selection. Corvo glanced curiously over his shoulder. He hadn’t really looked in there himself yet. The Loyalists had neatly managed to cure most of his taste for alcohol between them, and not even Sokolov had really convinced him to take it back up. Though Sokolov had _tried_. He’d more or less been shoving whatever bottles were pressed on him in there without looking. 

Slackjaw had a _much_ more marked appreciation than he had. He lifted a couple bottles out, cackling faintly to himself under his breath. “Oh, nice,” he murmured. “Nice fortune on these. Almost don’t want to drink it.”

Corvo snorted faintly. “You want to take a few to pass the poison on, feel free. Can’t vouch for the provenance, though.”

Slackjaw turned his head. “_Provenance_, he says,” the gang leader murmured pointedly. “You’re fittin’ right back in, ain’t ya. But since yer offering.”

Corvo grimaced, scrubbing at his face again. “Sorry. The place sinks into you after a while. Anything you want to drink now? I expect you don’t want to spend _all_ night stuck in my office. Nobody does. Me very much included.”

Slackjaw eyeballed him a bit. He didn’t seem overly offended though. He hefted one of the bottles, a squat brown round of Serkonan port, and shoved the rest back in with a grin. He moved over to the side table and flicked his aristocratic tailcoat out to sit in a _pitch-perfect_ rendition of court mannerisms. Then he sprawled back in his seat and propped his feet up with pure Distillery District swagger. He raised a 200 coin bottle in a cheerful salute, and popped the cork out with his teeth.

It was, in all honesty, the most welcoming, reassuring performance Corvo had seen since the last time he’d been in the Hound Pits with Sam. He huffed a laugh without meaning to, and moved over to take his own seat.

“Next time,” he said, with absolute seriousness, “I’ll come down to you, if you don’t mind. The atmosphere’s better in Bottle Street.”

Slackjaw chuckled darkly. “Don’t surprise me,” he said. “Bet the atmosphere’s better _most_ places than here. But yeah. Door’s always open to ya. ‘Ole Slackjaw keeps his word. Better than any nob round here. When you want a little honest company, some business handled proper like, you come right by. Bottle Street’ll see you right.” 

And the thing was, Corvo didn’t doubt it. He’d had a lot of sharp lessons in who to trust this past year or so. Slackjaw might not always be the most stable of allies, but you were fairly guaranteed to know where you stood with him. He valued straight dealing. If he wanted you knifed, it wouldn’t be in the back, and he wouldn’t pretend to make nice first.

Which honestly did put him a cut above most of the nobles in this damned Tower.

And Corvo might have said so, too, had not several startled voices sounded in the corridor, and something small and determined suddenly thudded against his door.

“Corvo! Corvo!”

Her voice was more angry and upset than scared. He’d had more than enough time to catalogue every variation of those emotions. He still found himself across the room before he’d thought. He still found his blade in one hand and the door already swinging open with the other. He’d left her with guards. With _Curnow’s_ guards, one of the few people he still half-way trusted in this place. That didn’t mean something hadn’t managed to get to her. And Emily was getting very good at finding her own way out of things.

She darted into the room under his arm, and he immediately stepped to close the gap behind her, his blade coming up and across the door. Two guards skidded to a terrified stop in the doorway, the younger one losing his footing and landing on his rear with a clatter and a yelp. Two feet behind them, Callista managed to slow herself to a much more dignified halt. At the sight of her, pale and startled and angry, Corvo’s instincts finally stepped back a bit. The rush of panic faded, and a flood of tired suspicion washed over him in its wake.

Emily was good at finding her own way out of things. Oh yes. Very good indeed.

Things like bedtimes. And lectures. And difficult discussions that she didn’t want to have. And, sometimes, seemingly _normal_ discussions that suddenly she didn’t want to have, for no immediately apparent reason. Sometimes it was normal pique. Sometimes it was something else. Something he recognised. Words and thoughts that made his throat tighten involuntarily, his voice vanish, through no intention on anyone’s part. 

It burned him, that he could see the same thing in Emily. But neither he nor Callista had much idea how to help.

Sometimes the only thing he could do was stand in a doorway and turn the rest of the world away.

Callista drifted forwards, stepping around the guardsman climbing awkwardly and apologetically to his feet. She ignored him, and touched Corvo lightly on the arm. Pushing the blade gently down.

“I’m not sure what happened,” she said softly. “I didn’t see it coming. She slipped out. We only followed to make sure she got here safely. I think … If she could stay, for a while, I think it might be best? I think she could probably use you tonight.”

Corvo clenched his jaw, old anger, old pain, and nodded tightly. “I’ll bring her to you in the morning,” he said, and for a second they were both back in the Hound Pits. Standing in an attic room, smelling old beer and river stink, while Emily wrapped her fist in his coat and tried to smile like she didn’t desperately want him to stay. Callista grimaced sadly, and clenched her fingers on his arm.

“Eight o’clock,” she said, with deliberate lightness. “I hope you’ll try and get some sleep before then, my Lord. You look like you could use it. Both of you.”

He exhaled. A ragged sound, nearly a sigh. He was sure he did look like it. Her lips quirked, and he dipped his head, rested his hand lightly over hers. “I’ll do my best,” he said, and knew by the look of her that she didn’t remotely believe him. Knew, too, that she wouldn’t say anything about it either.

She inclined her head as well, with more grace than many ladies with richer blood than hers, and squeezed his arm once more in acknowledgment.

“Good night, my Lord,” she said wryly. “And good luck.”

… Yes. Because Corvo was going to need it.

He closed the door behind him as he turned, leaving the guards on the other side. He scrubbed his face tiredly before looking up. Expecting … Expecting Emily to be standing behind him, looking angry and mulish and sullen. Or just upset. Just tired and angry and ten years old. It was what he usually saw on nights like these. But he’d forgotten … 

_Fuck_. He’d forgotten _Slackjaw_.

Emily wasn’t staring at him when he turned around. She was staring at the void-damned _gang lord_ sitting pretty at his table. 

Or, actually, the gang lord _standing_ pretty at his table. Dressed like a noble and standing like anything but. Holding a knife, a big enough knife that Corvo had to wonder how the hell he’d fit it under his damned aristocratic coat, casual and vicious on his feet where he’d …

Where he’d stood to back Corvo up. When Corvo’d lunged to his feet and to his weapon, and thrown himself across the floor to where his daughter was banging on the door.

Oh. That was … Corvo wasn’t entirely sure what that was. But it wasn’t the first time Bottle Street had backed him in a fight.

He moved quickly to Emily’s side. Slipping his own blade away, deliberately relaxing himself as much as possible. She had enough experience of finding strange men standing over her with knives. She was standing there, holding Slackjaw’s gaze as steadily as any Empress, but he could see the tightness in her shoulders. The quiver in her hands, curled into fists at her sides. He stepped up beside her and tugged her gently into his side. Glaring at Slackjaw the entire time. Warning him not to do anything … sudden.

Not that he seemed inclined. He was blinking down at Emily in his turn. Eyeballing her. Looking … bemused, maybe? Like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with tiny ten-year-old Empresses at silly o’clock at night.

“It’s all right, Emily,” Corvo murmured, curling an arm around her. “Don’t worry. He’s all right.”

Emily curled a hand in his coat. Her one concession to weakness. But she didn’t question him, and she didn’t hide. She lifted her chin, and stepped out away from him. Enough to bob a little curtsey, in complete defiance of everything her etiquette teachers had taught her, and hold out her hand politely to probably the most feared gang boss in Dunwall short of _Daud_.

For a second, Corvo felt the most dizzying rush of despair, and another of complete and utter _pride_.

“Nice to meet you,” Emily said. Rather dubiously, like she wasn’t quite sure it was warranted yet. “Are you a friend of Corvo’s, then?”

Slackjaw … did not say the first thing that had clearly come to his mind. His whole face twisted, did something very strange, and then he shook his head and put his knife away. He reached out with an odd smile to take her small hand very delicately in his much larger one.

“Could say that,” he said, looking at Corvo over her head. “We helped each other out a few times. Did right by me. Saved my life. I’d count us friendly, all right.”

Which he actually seemed to _mean_, as well. As far as it went. Corvo blinked at him a little.

Emily was much less concerned. This was, apparently, the right answer for her. She shook Slackjaw’s hand more vigorously, beaming up at him. “He does that,” she said, with blithe, childish confidence. “Saves people. He saved me. And Callista. And lots of other people. He’s very good at it.”

Corvo … did not flinch. Caught the reaction, strangled it. Squashed it down, down to where the Heart throbbed in his coat, so as not to worry Emily. He wasn’t that good at it. She’d still have a mother if he was. But Emily meant what she said, and he wasn’t going to contradict her. Not now. Not on a night like tonight.

Slackjaw was looking at him, when he looked up. Squinting at him, something hidden and thoughtful in his face. He’d caught some of that. Clearly. Corvo stared back, and dared him to say anything. The gang boss grinned instead, and shrugged lightly. He looked down, where Emily still held a grip on his hand, and smiled down at her with thoroughly evil intent.

Corvo had taken only a half step forward before the Boss of Bottle Street spoke.

“He is that, right enough,” he said, ignoring the hand Corvo’d slipped blatantly and warningly into his coat. “Saved me from a witch, you know. Was gonna get eaten, I was. Before your lord protector here stepped in and saved my neck. Appreciated that. Was right fine of him.”

“… A _witch_,” Emily exclaimed, with something half between fright and the same ghoulish delight that had her devouring stories of pirates and sea monsters. She took another step forward. “You were going to get _eaten_!?”

… Corvo was going to _murder Slackjaw in his sleep_.

The bastard knew it, too. He was grinning ear to ear, all Bottle Street swagger, holding Corvo’s daughter’s hand. Emily was gripping it now with both of hers, lured away from Corvo’s side, avid curiosity on her face. Slackjaw angled himself so that she was between Corvo and him, and gestured back at the table behind him.

“Sure, a witch,” he said, nodding sagely. “Right frightful, she was. Scared the willies out of us. How about we sit down, eh, and I’ll tell you all about it. Whaddya say?”

“_No_,” Corvo growled, putting every ounce of forbidding he still possessed into his voice. It was a fair bit. Six months in Coldridge and several more as the Masked Felon had to be good for _something_. But it slid like water off Slackjaw’s back, and Emily had always been immune.

“But Corvo!” she said, turned to stare pleadingly at him. “I want to hear it! You never told me you fought a witch!”

_And I never planned to_, he thought viciously. But he’d lost this round before he’d started. He could see it just from looking at her. And he almost … Her eyes were brighter, now. On nights like these, nights when Emily ran from discussions she didn’t want to have and shadows she didn’t want to talk about, her eyes were usually duller. She usually shrank, sullen and silent. She didn’t look like this. Excited. A little too desperately so, maybe, but it was …

It was better. So much better than a lot of these nights. Enough that it might almost be worth it.

If Granny Rags didn’t give her a whole new set of nightmares again.

He reached up and pinched his nose tightly. There was a headache blooming behind his eyes. Frustration, probably. Too little sleep, too many people making too many messes, most of whom he wasn’t allowed to kill or kidnap. Present company included. _Probably_. But Emily had that look in her eye, and even if he regretted it later Corvo didn’t have it in him to say no.

“I didn’t … fight a witch,” he said, lowering his hand to look down at her. And _glare at Slackjaw_. “Or at least, I didn’t _intend_ to fight a witch. I was trying to knock _out_ a witch, and it all went … somewhat sideways.”

“She could turn into rats,” Slackjaw agreed, nodding sagely some more. “Horrible things. And fog. Made it right messy. Couldn’t touch her at all. She had a secret, see. Had to find it before you could ki—deal with her.” 

Corvo silently thanked him for that little correction, although he doubted it had fooled Emily. At least Slackjaw was _trying_. Belatedly, but still.

“A secret?” Emily asked eagerly. Following Slackjaw over to the table, letting Corvo pull out a chair and steer her gently into it. She ignored him, leaning forwards towards Slackjaw instead. Who, to his credit, didn’t preen too much because of it. “You mean something magic? Something that made it so you couldn’t hurt her?”

“Right!” Slackjaw said, grinning over at her. Letting her puff up a bit in pride at herself. “Exactly, your majesty! That’s how she got me, you see. Couldn’t touch her at all. And there I was, tied up, and she was gonna make a stew outta me, and I see’s this shadow slip into the room. With, ah, with the face, you know?”

He mimed the mask over his face. Emily nodded excitedly, reaching up behind her to snag Corvo’s coat again. At his waist, where the mask had sometimes lived. Corvo felt a lump in his throat suddenly. He was glad Slackjaw was enjoying himself telling the story, because all his own words had abruptly dried up. She held onto him without fear. Leaned forwards towards Slackjaw with complete confidence of her safety in the face of him. Not the Empress, now, not the angry, uncertain little girl constrained behind a mask of cold politeness, but _Emily_, as excited as any ten-year-old should be, enthralled by the sorts of grisly stories that all children ghoulishly enjoyed. Myths and legends that were real, but couldn’t hurt her. Not anymore, anyway.

All right, then. Maybe Slackjaw would get to survive the night after all.

She fell asleep, after a while. After a _highly edited_ description of the confrontation in the sewers with Granny Rags, and then a few other stories that Slackjaw apparently had under his hat for just such an occasion. Ready for when he might have to entertain Empresses at a moment’s notice. As one did.

And Emily had let the odd few things slip here or there as well. Responding to details, to little things Slackjaw said, that for some reason weren’t threatening from him the way they seemed to be from someone else. Things from the Golden Cat, things that had Corvo clenching his arms around her where she’d crawled into his lap. Things that had locked his words in his throat, and stolen all the colour from his cheeks. 

Slackjaw … had been graceful with her through them. Well. In his way. He’d been rough and coarse and casual, taking them in stride, and apparently _that_ was what Emily had needed from him. The things she’d seen, Slackjaw knew them as a fact of life. He’d seen a lot of them too. He’d been able to nod at her, casual and calm, and let her carry on past it. 

It made sense. _Whores raised him_, Corvo remembered the Heart whispering. _He’ll never know his father was a prince._ For all their difference in station, Slackjaw had quite a few experiences in common with Emily now.

And he’d contrived to help her through them. He’d never met her before in his life, but in his own way he’d done his best to ease her through.

He really was a cut above most people in this place. On another level to so many of his ‘betters’. More a prince, Corvo would wager, than that unknown father had ever been.

Slackjaw looked over at him eventually. Rubbing his fingers thoughtfully together, looking up from where Emily was nestled into Corvo’s chest. Her limbs soft in sleep, her head tucked under his chin. Slackjaw took them in, the picture they made. Something passed across his face that Corvo couldn’t read. Something dark, anyway. Something fierce and bloody.

“… Hear them Pendletons are doin’ well,” the gang boss said, finally. Rolling the words around his cheek. Wrapping them in placid, patient savagery. “Right where they belong, I reckon. Couldn’t have happened to a better bunch of bastards.”

Corvo closed his eyes. Feeling something hot and savage in his own chest. Something thick and strangling, even all these months later. Every time. Every bad night.

“… Yes,” he managed thickly. “I think so too.”

Slackjaw nodded to himself. Nice and easy. A wolf in a fancy coat, sitting pretty at Corvo’s table. Looking, and feeling, right at home there.

“You ever need anyone else handled for the lady,” he offered quietly. “Ever need a job done. You come to me. I’ll do it for ya right cheap.”

Corvo laughed desperately. A cracked sound, from what felt like weeks without sleep. He shook his head. “Don’t _tempt_ me,” he whispered. Curling an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “We’ve had two rounds of that already. I can’t go down that path any further. For her sake. She’s seen enough of that for one lifetime already.”

As tempting as it might be. As very, _very_ tempting as it might be.

It said something, he thought, that in all that scrambling to topple two conspiracies, the man he’d found it almost easiest to spare had been _Daud_. The man who’d actually done the killing. The man whose blade had torn Jessamine from him. Straight out of Coldridge, maybe that wouldn’t have been the case, but by the time Corvo had gotten to him …

At least the Knife had been honest, in his way. _Remorseful_, in his way. He’d been paid to do a job, and he’d regretted it. For the right reasons. He’d regretted it.

Not a single highborn or political conspirator grasping for power had offered anything close to the same. Not Burrows. Not Campbell. Not Havelock. Not Martin. Not Pendleton. Any of the Pendletons. The nearest thing to an honourable man in the bunch had been the _assassin_. An honest monster, at the least. A cut above his ‘betters’.

And every noble scrambling for power and influence around Emily now, he found himself looking at them the same way. Wondering where the poison was going to come from. Slackjaw’s offer was beyond tempting. But Corvo remembered what the Outsider had said, towards the end there. What Daud had said in his audiograph. Burrows had been a paranoid wreck by the end. Feeling the noose tighten slowly as a result of his sins. Havelock hadn’t been much better.

Corvo couldn’t go down the same path. No matter how easy. No matter how tempting. No matter how many wolves, or _whales_, offered their services, even out of genuine friendship.

A reign bought in blood ends the same way. And he wouldn’t ever do that to her.

He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. But _void_, life had been so much easier when he could just kidnap people to get them out of the way.

He found Slackjaw studying him when he looked up. Found the man eyeballing him, taking him in while he sat curled and ragged around his girl. His _Empress_. Corvo had no idea what the man saw. But it didn’t seem to displease him.

“You’re all right, you know,” the gang boss pronounced, after a long second. Easy and thoughtful. “For a man trying to run this city. You’re all right.”

And he seemed to mean _that_, too.

For a minute, Corvo couldn’t decide if he’d been damned with faint praise, or offered one of the highest compliments he’d ever been given. But he’d take it, he supposed. Either way.

“… Want to take the port home with you?” he offered wryly. As poor a gesture, maybe. But apparently appreciated all the same.

“Aye,” Slackjaw grinned. “The port, the brandy, and the 1823 Cullero, if yer offering. Maybe a few others besides.”

Corvo laughed faintly. “You know what?” he said, scooping his sleeping daughter up as he stood and holding out his hand to the man with good grace. “Take the lot. And anything else shiny in here that hasn’t been nailed down too.” He grinned darkly. “Most of it isn’t mine. And Burrows won’t be missing it anymore.”

Slackjaw returned the grin and the easy malice with interest, and gripped his hand in a firm, rough shake. “Well thank you,” he said. “Nice doin’ business with ya, spymaster. Always a pleasure.”

Corvo snorted. “Do me a favour,” he asked, “and don’t kill anyone on the way out? We’ve just had the carpets cleaned. Coups are hell on the furniture.”

Slackjaw cackled darkly. A wolf in a fancy coat. “I’ll bet,” he said. 

“I’ll bet.”


End file.
